


Let the sky fall

by Anloquen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Apocalypse, Drugs, Emotional Baggage, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Heavy Angst, Multi, Nightmares, Sassy Castiel, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:14:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6571135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anloquen/pseuds/Anloquen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Endverse one-shots exploring the relationship between Dean and Cas in the post-Croatoan-apocalypse future. Mainly angsty, some heartwarming, some sad. There will be no plot per se, though the one-shots are intended to take place in the same universe and timeline (not in any particular order, though I hope that as I add next chapters, you will start to see a bigger picture; still, every chapter can be read separately).  Established Destiel. No fluff, no smut. Just pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean grunts, stretching his arms and simultaneously trying to make that damned teeny-tiny part of his spine snap back into its place. He isn't a spring chicken anymore; the dragging on days of labor affected him more than he'd like to admit, which fills him with a mixture of embarrassment and regret. There are people much older than him and in much worse shape - famished, wounded, ill - who worked equally hard. All the more reason for him not to complain.

The hunter has to admit that they all did better than he'd expected. The fence is strong and tall, watchtowers are reasonably placed and sturdy (though peculiarly ugly), the area around them cleared of trees and grubbed, salt plowed into soil. Barrels of crude oil and gasoline lie in long trenches near the lower course of the river, ready to be buried in sand or flooded in case of fire. There are three power generators. Apart from that, solar panels have proven pretty easy to come by when one knew where to look, so Dean doesn't have to worry about the dreaded darkness that would allow all kinds of creatures to sneak into the camp. They have six functional vehicles, including four off-roaders. The 'geek squad', as he liked to call two engineers, a wannabee chemist and a biotechnologist he saved from a factory surrounded by Croats has even managed to plan and start assembling a mini water purification plant. They are safe.

They are safe.

Dean leans against a warm, rough wall of a wooden cabin and slowly slumps onto a stack of ammo crates as the awareness washes over him. Damn it.

Engaged in trying to keep everyone alive and in line, he's almost forgotten how bad it is. He's almost forgotten about this cold, sinking feeling he's been living with for years now; almost getting used to it, like to a chip of metal embedded in bone that hurts only when one has time to remember about it. So this is how it's gonna be. Hideouts, dealing with refugees, scouting the area for survivors, digging in mud, looting, keeping guards, trying to survive on canned food and game (unless someone of his people knows how to grow crops, which he doubts). Trying to avoid the subject, trying to avoid disillusioning those who still believed it is temporary. Until the end.

Dry gravel grates under light, but sure steps. Dean lifts his gaze to see a can of beer held almost in front of his face.

"Thanks, Cas," he mutters before pressing the metal against his temple. It is colder than he expected, "Did Jeff get these refrigerators to work yet?"

"No. I chilled the beer in the river," the former angel plops onto the crates next to Dean with a second can in his hand. A pop followed by a fizz reminds the hunter to open his own beer. He can recognize a hint of musty sludge before it is washed away by cool, watery, slightly sweet beverage. The beer tastes only slightly better than the drops of river water he forgot to wipe from the lid of the can.

"Tastes like dog piss..." it is a conversation starter rather than a complaint. Castiel shrugs, then tilts his head back, squinting in the evening sun. Winchester follows his example. One could think that the moment was idyllic - a warm, sunny afternoon, a cabin in a forest, two guys sipping chilled beer after a long day of digging, sawing and hammering. No sound is coming from the rest of the camp apart from some hushed conversations, cans popping or bottles clinking. The people will probably be calm and satisfied for a while, enjoying the weather and resting, before they realize they don't know what to do next. Dean expects them to start coming and asking in about half an hour.

He knows he will welcome these questions. Another distractor. Another opportunity to add one bead to his rosary of small accomplishments; baby steps he's managed to take. Whenever the panic strikes, he will be able to brood about them, recall them one by one, recite them like a litany until he finally comes down enough to breathe without the pain filling his lungs with fire.

"Cas?" he sighs, ready to start planning next steps right away.

"Yes?"

"Looks like we're gonna have to arrange the camp today. This big clubhouse by the main lane... It'd make a good hospital. What'ya think?"

"I don't know, Dean," the ex-angel replies wearily, "You will need some kind of gathering hall to announce your will, but perhaps hospital is more important."

Dean snorts.

"To announce my will?"

"Govern the camp."

"Aren't we gonna have some democracy here?" Winchester challenges with no hint of humor.

"Democracy isn't effective during wars. This is war, Dean," Castiel states serenely; the hunter has an impression that this assessment of the situation brings peace to the fallen angel. War is something he knows best. Two sides, battlefront, clear intentions, clear orders. In a way it is less confusing and less grueling than the mess that made them stray for months.

"Besides," Cas adds with his gaze fixed on the can he has placed between his feet, "people have already accepted you as their leader. This is a natural reaction. In times of a crisis an individual starts to act and the rest acknowledges his authority. It has always been this way."

"Yeah. I guess you know these things," Winchester murmurs blankly, a bit confounded by Castiel's moony tone. The fallen angel continues:

"King Arthur, Charlemagne, Julius Caesar...they all had to square up to the situation, that's all."

"Woah, hold your horses. How did we get from choosing a barrack for a hospital to comparing me to king Arthur?"

There is no answer. Dean stands up with a grunt, then takes a look around while his friend finishes his beer. All the refugees have been sleeping in one large barrack or in tents since they had found the camp, because Dean wanted to avoid wasting time on assigning lodgings before they secured the area, but now it is high time to find a place to stay. The men have been sitting next to a cabin in the middle of the camp, so the hunter decides to check it out first. Ragged, gray planks that make the porch's floor and stairs squeak when he is running up the stairs and getting in, but otherwise the construction is quite sturdy. There is no mold or must inside; it looks like most of the furniture - a table, two chairs, a coat rack and a couple of shelves - can be salvaged.

"How about this one?" he calls out to Cas, who joins him after displaying his reluctance and general dejection with a loud, deep sigh. Dean wonders where the guy could have learned this passive aggression; the moment he takes time to ask himself that question the answer appears obvious.

"What about this one?" Cas grumbles.

"Fit for a king, huh?" Dean asks caustically, "It's in the middle of the camp, if I stay here I'll have the whole area within earshot."

Castiel bites his lips, leaning against the door jamb with his legs crossed and watching Dean explore the cramped cabin. Winchester slowly clears a rectangle of floor by kicking debris, dried leaves and rags out of it.

"You'll need to chose your side of the, uhm, bed area," he tries to call some semblance of smile onto his face, but he fails.

"What do you mean?" there is strange insincerity in Cas's voice; Dean can't tell whether it's alarm or outrage.

"You're staying with me, right?" the hunter asks, distressingly aware that his attempts not to let his insecurity show are futile. He feels dizzy when Cas's piercing, knowing look glosses over his face to rest on Dean's eyes, "Right?" the hunter repeats gutturally. He knows that if he had to utter more than one syllable, his voice would break.

After a chillingly long pause, the ex-angel pushes himself off the door jamb to straighten up.

"Yes, I am," he nods sadly "I'll bring our things from the tent."

He returns a couple of minutes later, carrying a backpack and two duffel bags, heavy with iron, steel and silver. Dean never had many clothes and after becoming human Castiel learned the same habit. Weapon is what they both really value.

The ex-angel lays the bags carefully on the dusty, squeaking floor near the door before approaching Dean, who has already gathered all the debris into one large pile. Cas puts his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"So this is it," he states blankly, "home."

"Home," Dean echoes with a bitter edge in his voice, "Damnit..."

A slight pressure of Cas's hand makes him turn slowly to face his friend; afraid that he'll meet Cas's keen, ruthful look Dean runs his hands down his face, trying to rub the dejection and sorrow away. He can't. When he feels a gentle tug and Castiel's other arm around him, he can't but sink into this embrace and press his forehead against Castiel's.

"Man, it could have been so good. So good..." he whispers.

"I know, Dean. I..." Cas's voice is caught in his throat; he pushes Dean away and gives Dean's arms one quick, reassuring squeeze before turning around to leave, "I'll bring the rest of the bags. It's getting dark."

"Yeah, right..." Dean's voice is flat and hoarse; the only thing that alleviates his shame is the certainty that Castiel will fall in with his game, pretending that he never saw Dean's moment of weakness, that nothing ever happened. Like he always does.

He is safe as long as he doesn't allow himself to look into Cas's eyes that always watch him with this unworldly devotion and sorrow; that always remind him that no matter how hard he tries, Castiel knows everything and understands everything. He will always understand.

"Yeah," Dean repeats blankly, "It's getting dark."


	2. Chapter 2

_Marines are dispersing - there is nothing left for them to do. The sound of siren cuts through early morning's silence, flushing dozens of seagulls out of heavy fog that lurks above clammy rocks and concrete. A flurry of confused, scared birds circle over the harbor; their pitiful squeals add to the clamor, the roar of powerful engines and ugly, slurping sound of water torn by lazy propellers. A rusty hull grazes the quay with thundering scrape; nobody cares enough to try to maneuver carefully. As the ship crawls out of the port, those who got on it can finally stop running for their lives._

_She is slightly overburdened, but it doesn't matter - the sea is calm and it will take only a few hours for the ship to reach her destination: one of the islands that haven't been attacked by the croatoan virus yet. What does matter is that the local crisis center managed to dispatch another ship with survivors towards safety. Besides people - scientists, doctors and engineers valuable to the society - she carries medical and scientific equipment needed to establish a temporary laboratory designed to find a vaccine for croatoan virus._

_Most of the refugees leave the shore with hope tinted with anxiety. Only one of them seems suspiciously calm. Instead of praying, crying or nervously telling bad jokes to cover his nervousness he watches the deck with keen eyes and stoic composure._

_Dean would have spotted it. Any hunter would have spotted it. All it takes is to say "christo" to see his eyes darken and his face contort in fury, but no one of the escorted survivors knows; nobody imagines that croatoan could be anything more than just a disease. There is no one who could prepare holy water or recite the exorcism. Though protected by armed soldiers, the people on board are defenseless._

_In the morning silence there is a ringing snap. A few minutes later a woman cuts her finger trying to remove the broken glass from the deck. When the ship reaches her destination, the only sane person left is the demon who steers her gently into the harbor. A few seconds after hordes of Croats spill onto the island, a smudge of black smoke leaves the man's mouth. There is nothing left to see to. Croatoan is doing its job._

Dean wakes up with a jolt, panting and covered in thick, fetid sweat. It takes him a while to unscramble the mayhem in his mind. Finally, he can attribute every stimulus to its source. The grid of lurid blueish light is moonlight seeping through a barred window. The scrape of gravel is guards circling the camp. This steady, slow breath is Cas, who must have come back into the cabin while Dean slept.

He runs his palms down his sweaty face and turns to his side. Cas lays curled up on the far edge of their bed with his back turned to Dean, covered with a separate blanket. For a moment Dean feels compelled to wake him up, to tell him how terrified he is. The same dream has haunted the leader for months. Though his imagination lets the tragedy unfold in various places and circumstances, the pattern is always the same. People almost reaching safety. "Civilian" soldiers - Dean couldn't help thinking about all the non-hunters as civilians - taking all conceivable precautions and failing; failing miserably because they have no clue what they are up against. The direful awareness of how easy it would be to avert the danger if Dean was there to help instead of trying to find the colt and kill Lucifer.

Doubt keeps gnawing at his mind even when he is awake. He keeps coming up with all possible reasons to believe that killing Lucifer is the only way to stop the Apocalypse, but in the end he has nothing but his own ruminations. There is nobody there to answer his questions. Will the world ever get back to normal? Will croatoan stop spreading the moment Lucifer dies? Is it possible to restore political and economic stability after all of this? Is there anything left to fight for? Maybe Cas is right, maybe Dean doesn't want to save people anymore. Maybe it is just about revenge, about quenching this thirst for blood. Maybe it is about ending this feverish, stomach-turning anxiety that keeps scorching him from the inside and chilling blood in his veins as long as there is another low point he could hit, as long as he hasn't hit the rock bottom. Maybe it is about this steadfast certainty that his life will end the moment he pulls the trigger; he simply couldn't live with Sammy's blood on his hands and God, how he craves relief. This bleak, dark, cold, absolute relief that only death can bring.

Or maybe he is just lost beyond return. There is one thing that could bring him back home, but he doesn't dare to ask for it.

It would be so easy. All he needs is to put his hand on Castiel's shoulder and pull or shake gently, or call the angel's name when Dean's lips are so close to Cas's ear. The longing is almost physically painful. He wants to hear the angel's deep, calming voice, to listen to his lies that Cas somehow can tell so convincingly: that maybe, just maybe there is God who will show up in the last possible moment to set things right... or at least so that Dean could spit him in the face.

He fights this urge off. Sleep is rare luxury these days, especially for those who know what is going on. Especially for Cas. Waking him when he's just managed to drink away or fend off all the nightmares perched on his shoulder feels like a crime to Dean. Instead, he pulls himself closer and wraps one arm around Cas's shoulders, he even manages to slip his hand under the blanket to gingerly stroke Cas's chest. The fallen angel stirs uneasily and grunts, but doesn't fully wake up. His hand moves; he grips Dean's wrist unknowingly and pulls him closer to nestle his back against Dean's chest. The man cradles his head against Cas's nape; he inhales deep to find his scent underneath this acidic smell of fresh sweat. There is a vague aroma of rose and patchouli stuck to his dark hair. It doesn't take him long to remember Anouk, that dreamy, frail girl who kept talking about energies, incarnations, mantras, and karma; courting Castiel almost as if she knew that there was more in him than met the eye. It looks like she finally won him over.

An upsurge of anger should follow - he knows it - but it doesn't. At first, there is nothing but mild annoyance, because one reminds the rookies not to waste time on nonessentials only so many times. Most of the men in the camp struggle to make ends meet; there is never enough food, petrol or ammo, but there is always an idiot who will pick up things like perfume, jewellery or lingerie during supply raids.

Dean sniggers quietly. He has not sunken into madness so deep that he couldn't recognize the absurdity of the situation. The fact that women keep wasting time and cargo space to bring cosmetics from forages irritates him more than the fact that Cas has slept with that girl. He isn't angry at all. If anything, he feels guilty for being so weak and broken that the angel felt obliged to come back to their bed, imbued with the stench of fear and nightmares, instead of staying with Anouk: her hope, her herbal incense, her sweet voice, her patchouli, immortality and reincarnation.

The guilt creeps up to him in the dark, getting heavier and more bitter every second until Dean feels like screaming. His lips move noiselessly when he repeats his own mantra to drive away the feeling that is crushing his chest: he never made Cas promise anything. He never demanded faithfulness, neither as a lover, nor as a leader. A part of him wishes that he was strong enough to cast the angel aside, to save him from destruction and misery awaiting anyone who gets close to the Righteous Man. A part of him is grateful that he doesn't have to try. He knows that even if he did, Castiel would never leave. No matter what happens, Cas will never leave.

* * *

**These one-shots are getting really dark. I hope you like it, because I am a bit worried that I'm getting carried away by my unhealthy penchant for pain, angst and misery. Please R &R :)**


	3. Chapter 3

Cas cherishes the rare moments when a glimpse of old Dean can be seen through the shell that has hardened around him since the day Sam... Since the day Sam died - that's how he likes to think about it. There is nearly no trace of that heedless, ferocious boy the angel dragged out of Hell; even the blind fury that kept him going for months has now died down, solidified into bleak, hopeless, cold hatred. Still, the task of repairing cars sometimes gets Dean so engrossed that his features soften, his voice becomes melodious and cordial, his words flow easily, weaving stories from long lost movies and books. Sometimes the illusion is almost perfect; the smell of grease and gasoline, well-known series' of sounds, the triumphant smile spreading on Dean's face as soon as he succeeds - it all reminds Cas of Bobby's salvage yard, the good old days. They used to be terrified, exhausted and in pain most of the time, but they had one other. Now Cas sometimes catches himself expecting Sam to come by with two cold beers, put one on the ground next to his brother and sit on a tool box. Dean would snake out from beneath the car, sit up, complain that the beer was too warm, call Sam a bitch or try to get him dirty with grease - by accident, of course. The younger Winchester would retaliate by joking about Dean's beer belly or about how old and rusty he was. Bobby would laugh at all of them and call them idjits.

It was possible to forget about the Apocalypse back then. Now... sometimes the illusion is almost perfect, but it's only an illusion.

There is always something that knocks it down. Gunshots and Yager's yelling coming from the shooting range; the roar of jet engines or rumble of army choppers above their heads; someone coming to ask the leader for instructions. Dean would sober up in no time. His eyes would darken, his shoulder would square and he would answer in this guttural, harsh voice Cas could hardly recognize as his.

It's no different this time. Upon hearing footsteps on loose gravel Castiel knows that the moment of peace is over.

It's Randy - that young ex-troop that ran away from a... well, not a battle. A carnage. Even though Chuck (he was a good soul after all) did anything he could to convince the kid that there was nothing he could have done to save his comrades, anyone can feel that air of shame and regret tinging the usual PTSD in him. He sought someone he could serve to absolve himself and he found his God in Dean. Ever since Randy learned what was happening, he grew to hold Dean in high esteem that the leader likes to describe as creepy. No wonder he does. Winchester blended with a conglomeration of all possible male heroic figures; he is his fatherly figure, his archetypal staff sergeant, his Jesus Christ, his Captain America. Cas presumes that it's why Dean seems to hate the boy in particular, though he might as well be wrong. He feels like he doesn't know Dean as well as he used to.

Still, he knows him well enough to know that Dean will stand up, wipe the grease off his hands in a few quick, rough, almost violent motions, dust his knees off, straighten up, rise his chin and snap:

"What do you want?"

He places his hand on the back of Castiel's neck, standing next to the angel who is sitting on a tool box. It's not a caress, rather marking his territory. It's another thing that Dean does only in Randy's presence.

"Sir, we received a radio broadcast. I think you should check it."

"I told you not to call me that," Winchester growls. His grip on Cas's neck tightens to the point when it's almost painful, but not quite.

"Yes, sir!"

Dean doesn't even sigh or roll his eyes. It's a bad sign.

-x-x-X-x-x-

"So the army decided to get their asses out of Wisconsin, Michigan, northern Illinois, northern Indiana and Ohio..." Dean states woodenly.

"It will become no man's land, so survivors will be forced to either be evacuated or legally renounce USA citizenship," Castiel adds, cocking his head and rising his eyebrows in amusement. The other two hunters get the joke. They both snicker, because imagining that any legal procedures make any sense proves that Mrs Palin simply knows nothing about the situation.

"Yeah. Uncontrollable territory. I kinda get why..." Bobby clucks his tongue, "Detroit."

"Detroit," Winchester repeats. He takes a big swig of whiskey straight from the bottle and winces in disgust, "the fun part is," he tries to speak against the fresh burn that alcohol gave him; it's making his voice hoarse and choky, "they're gonna nuke Chicago, Detroit and Cleveland."

"Balls. We need to get the Colt from Crowley's deposit."

Dean pours himself a glass properly this time; he offers another to Bobby, but the hunter shakes his head, looking at his foster son with reproach.

"Relax," Dean tilts his chair back, balancing on two back legs like a teenager, "We have 70 hours till the bombs drop. 12 hours getting there, 12 hours back, let's say... 18 hours to get shit done, 6 hours in case there's a fuck up. More than enough."

The angel stands up slowly to stretch his shoulders.

"All right, I'll start packing. You taking M16 and Desert Eagle or A-K and Uzi's?"

Dean goes from nonchalant to tense and angry in a heartbeat; upon sitting up properly he sends his lover a threatening glare.

"I'm taking everything, 'casue you're not coming."

"Uhm... And what about Fi-Fi, Chloe and Coco? Correct me if I'm wrong, but I presume that a person who can actually see them will come in handy..." This time it is Castiel who has the high ground; having sat down again he puts his legs on the table and crosses his arms behind his head. Dean tries to regain his composure, although he looks like a beaten dog, casting fleeting glances on Bobby and Castiel. The reason why he needs Cas for the mission is exactly the same reason why he wants to keep him as far from it as possible. Hellhounds. Crowley trained them not to attack upon hearing a certain spell and left them to guard the Colt in an old deposit in Detroit - the only place they knew Lucifer wouldn't check. Theoretically it is safe to retrieve it... But only theoretically.

"I know the lullaby too," Winchester states with fake composedness, "I can deal with some buff, mutated zombie puppies."

"Yeah, and you suck ass at fencing," Bobby reminds caustically, "Boy, I could cut the ground from under your feet right now. If things go west, you'll need the blades and mr feathery ass here, who knows how to spin these babies because he's done it since the dawn of the fucking solar system!"

Cas sends Winchester a triumphant look.

"Yeah.. And who won't pass the warding," the latter drawls out.

"Dean!" Cas tenses up again, "We've talked about this. I'm human. No matter how hard you deny it, I'm human."

"How do you know?"

"Because..." Cas begins edgily, but a half-fond, half-teasing smirk brightens up his face, "If I was an angel, I would fly you home and kick some reason into your obdurate brain right this second."

Bobby snorts sarcastically.

"Well, thanks for not exposing me to the sight."

There is a moment when Dean looks like he's giving up, but the next second his features sharpen; his voice is gruff and dead again.

"Cas isn't coming."

"Why not?"

The angel ruffles; they both start up, inflamed by anger and spite that get triggered way too easily these days, ready to turn their quarrel into a fight any moment. Singer knows too well how this is going to end; luckily, his cabin doesn't have stairs, so he can roll his wheelchair freely to get out of their sight; he knows he would be ignored anyway.

"Because I'm not letting you near that hellh...," Dean hisses furiously; suddenly, he falters and squeezes his eyes shut; his lips go pale; he can barely speak, "When Jo... I can't lose... I.. I just can't," he shakes the weakness off and finishes in a dead, taut voice, "I won't let you near them. Understood?"

"Well, that's a pity, because I am not letting you go there alone either," Cas waits to see a spark of understanding in the hunter, but there isn't any; he grunts in helpless frustration, "Dean. I am deeply moved by your irrational protectiveness. In any other set of circumstances I'd be delighted, but now... Like you had the courtesy to put it, shit must be done and I happen to be the only one who can..."

He stops short. Something is different about the hunter - he's less aggressive, more tense. His lower lip is trembling ever so slightly. The angel is sure that nobody else would notice, but he knows Dean just too well. He understands.

Aggravation leaves Castiel in one deep ragged sigh when he realizes how terrified Dean is. Instead of continuing the cross talk, he pulls his lover closer to cup his cold, rough face and look him in the eyes.

"Dean. They won't harm me. I will be all right. I promise. Understood?"

After a moment of hesitation, Dean nods with a small, uneasy smile.

"Understood."

* * *

**I do realize that this part does not make much sense in terms of plot, but I hope I managed to give you a nice one-shot revolving around Dean's attitude and his feelings for Cas. Anyway... who am I fooling? We all come here for feels, not for the plot, am I right?**

**If you think that this part wasn't angsty enough and you're worried that I'm getting too soft - fear not, I will give you pain, misery, anxiety and violence soon.** **Most of the one-shots in this series will be on the angsty/heavy side, but you'll find one or two lighter ones like this.**

**Please R &R, let me know if you're liking this series.**


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